And all day long I number yet, An instinct call it, a blind sense; Coming one knows not how, nor whence, Child of the Year! that round dost run Thy course, bold lover of the sun, *Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain ; Dear thou shalt be to future men As in old time; — thou not in vain, Art Nature's Favorite. See, in Chaucer and the elder Poets, the honours for merly paid to this flower. II. A WHIRL-BLAST from behind the hill Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound: Then all at once the air was still, And showers of hailstones pattered round. Where leafless Oaks towered high above, I sat within an undergrove Of tallest hollies, tall and green; Along the floor, beneath the shade III. HINT FROM THE MOUNTAINS FOR CERTAIN POLITICAL ASPIRANTS. STRANGER, 'tis a sight of pleasure With great enterprise ; But in man was ne'er such daring His brave spirit with the war in Mark him, how his power he uses, Lays it by, at will resumes! Mark, ere for his haunt he chooses Clouds and utter glooms! There, he wheels in downward mazes; Sunward now his flight he raises, Catches fire, as seems, and blazes ANSWER. Traveller, 'tis no act of courage But such mockery as the Nations Such it is, and not a Haggard 'Tis by nature dull and laggard, A poor helpless Thing, Dry, and withered, light and yellow; That to be the tempest's fellow ! Wait- and you shall see how hollow Its endeavouring! |